The Tender Glory

by Jean S. MacLeod

  The kiosk stood at the far side of the old bridge over the Calder Water and she noticed to her surprise that the jeep was still parked there, on the far side of the road. Voices echoed suddenly against the quiet of the trees and a dog barked joyously, running free.

  Wondering if it was the collie, she pulled open the kiosk door. Again and again she dialled the number she wanted, but the phone was dead. When she turned away Huntley Daviot was

  striding towards her across the road.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to draw a blank for an hour or two,” he told her. “We’re completely cut off. The line comes from Calders down here, through the woods, and we’ve got trees down all over the place after the storm.” He stood looking down at her. “Was it very important?”

  “It was, as a matter of fact.” She bit her lip. “I was trying to contact a friend in Wick. I wanted to hire a taxi.”

  “Has something happened to the van?” he asked.

  “The van wouldn’t do,” she explained. “I have to take my mother to hospital. She had a letter this morning asking her to be there tomorrow.”

  “Have you hired this car?” he asked.

  “Not definitely, but Jim told me to let him know as soon as I needed it.”

  “Orbister?” he mused. “I suppose we could get a message through to him some other way.”

  She was beginning to feel nervous.

  “I must get there, but I simply couldn’t take the van,” she said. “It’s so terribly unreliable.”

  He hesitated.

  “What time have you to be in Wick?” he asked.

  “In the early afternoon.” She was trying to work out some other plan. “I could almost get there and back tonight.”

  “Not in the state your van was in when I last saw it,” he decided briefly.

  “I might manage as far as Lybster. The lines can’t be down all the way along the coast.” She didn’t want his help if it was going to be offered reluctantly. “I could chance the van as far as that.”

  “You’d better leave this to me,” he said. “I’m going down to Golspie with the timber people. If I can get word through from there, I will.”

  “And if not?” Her eyes were anxious. “I can’t chance being able to telephone in the morning.”

  She felt peculiarly helpless, all of a sudden, aware of the treachery of the elements as never before. It was the wrong time of year to be taking unnecessary risks, especially with someone as ill as her mother.

  “I won’t leave it too late,” he promised abruptly. “If there’s no other way I’ll take you to Wick myself.”

  “I couldn’t let you do that,” she protested.

  “You may have to,” he told her. “There’s no one else with a car suitable enough within reasonable distance.”

  “I—wondered about Major Searle.”

  He shook his head.

  “He hasn’t bothered about a car since he came here.” “Then—”

  “It must be me,” he supplied dryly. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to feel obliged. I can fit in a business trip to Wick which is long overdue, if I have to take you.”

  Trying to thank him adequately, she paused halfway across the bridge.

  “I’m very grateful. It would have meant quite a journey to Wick and back in the dark.”

  He saluted her briefly.

  “Try not to worry too much,” he advised almost kindly. She watched from the bridge while he searched for the collie.

  “He’s down there, along the river.” She pointed to the grey speck picking its way among the stones. “Is he very old?”

  “Old and getting blind.” He came to stand beside her, whistling for the dog. “His working days are nearly over, but they have an instinct for sheep. Rab will round them up anywhere.”

  They stood watching the collie herding three ewes away from the dangers of the river bed. It was so still here under the trees that they could almost hear each other’s heartbeats, so quiet that the rest of the world might have been a thousand miles away. The collie came up round the end of the bridge, wet and panting, his red tongue lolling, his eyes vaguely searching for his master.

  “Heel!” Huntley commanded. “You’ll need your ride back to Sterne in the jeep after that exhibition!”

  Alison picked a delicate heart’s tongue fern from a cranny on the bridge, smoothing out the green leaves with her fingers.

  “It’s a miracle they last so long,” she observed. “They’re so tender and yet so tough.”

  He didn’t answer, but when she glanced up he was looking down at the tiny fern in her hands. His expression was baffling, as if he were struggling between contempt and understanding, and a wild colour flamed in her cheeks. Did he really think she had been trying to charm him?

  “Goodbye, Rab,” she said abruptly, stooping to pat the collie’s head. “Have a nice ride home!”

  When she was halfway up the hill she heard the jeep start, going in the opposite direction, through the estate. Huntley was either on his way to Calders or, passing it, was making for the Lodge. And she would be forced to pass the Lodge on her way home.

  Cutting across the moor was out of the question after the rain of the day before, but she almost took the risk. She felt that she had to get back to Craigie Hill as quickly as possible, even though she knew that her mother was perfectly safe with Kirsty.

  Coming up towards the Lodge she heard a great commotion. A figure in rough tweeds was beating about in the undergrowth just inside the gates, while a pig squealed alarmingly in headlong flight. The jeep was nowhere to be seen.

  “For goodness’ sake, Daddy, leave the wretched animal alone!” Tessa Searle stood on the steps looking exasperated. “It’ll find its own way home. If it came up from the clachan it’ll go back there.”

  “With half my winter greens inside it!” The major continued to flail about with his stick. “Not likely! I’ll have it out of here if it’s the last thing I do. It’s a young ’un, by the looks of it,' and underfed into the bargain. Why can’t these people keep their livestock under proper control?”

  Crashing off in pursuit of his quarry, he failed to notice Alison. “He’ll chase it for miles,” Tessa smiled, “and come back completely exhausted. But maybe it’s a change from fishing.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Were you coming in?”

  “Not really.” Alison was forced to stop and speak. “I’m on my way back from the telephone kiosk. We’re completely cut off.” “I know. Daddy tried to get through to London this morning, but it was hopeless. Why didn’t you try from here? It’s nearer than the bridge.”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you,” Alison admitted.

  “It wouldn’t have been much use, anyway. The lines are down for miles, Huntley says.” Tessa paused to consider her. “He’s terribly busy. They’ve started to fell timber down by the bridge.”

  Which would account for the jeep and the stranger in the tweed deerstalker and the voices on the far side of the boundary wall as she crossed the road, Alison thought.

  “I wondered if you were coming to have a look at our piano.” Tessa limped back into the hall. “You may as well, now that you’re here.”

  Alison hesitated.

  “If you’re not expecting anyone—”

  “Nobody,” Tessa assured her. “Huntley’s been. He checks up on us once a day.” Her laugh was brittle. “He won’t come back, especially if he hears you playing.” Because of Leone?

  “What about your father?” Alison asked.

  “He should be nearly at the clachan by now!” Tessa decided. “He’ll chase that wretched pig till they lose contact, then he’ll yam to the postman or somebody for an hour or so. It’s routine, more or less. He won’t be back till it’s time for his ‘sundowner’, as he calls it. That’s what comes of serving in the Far East! Do come in.”

  There was an odd sort of eagerness about the invitation, a rather pitiful appeal for companionship which Alison couldn’t refuse. The Lodge was possibly a very lon
ely place when Huntley Daviot wasn’t there.

  “Let’s get the door shut,” Tessa urged. “It’s growing cold.”

  “I can’t stay very long,” Allison protested. “I must get back home. I’m still not very sure about tomorrow, whether I’ve done the right thing or not.”

  Tessa ushered her into the sitting-room. It was warm and comfortable, with long windows at its farthest end overlooking the garden, and a wide, open hearth taking up almost the whole of one wall. The focal-point for Alison, however, was a lovely boudoir grand piano in an alcove. Her breath held and her fingers itching, she stood gazing at it with every pulse in her body quickening with the desire to touch it.

  “Go on,” Tessa said. “Try it, if you like. I’ll make the tea.”

  “Please don’t,” Alison begged. “I can’t stay.”

  “Of course you can!” Tessa pushed her towards the piano. “Why did you say you hoped you had done the right thing?” she asked, turning at the door.

  “I couldn’t get through to Wick to phone for a taxi,” Alison explained, “and I met—Mr. Daviot. He offered to help. My mother has to go into hospital tomorrow afternoon.”

  “How can Huntley help?” The question was sharp.

  “He promised to phone Jim Orbister for me from Golspie, provided he can get through from there.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “He—said he wouldn’t let me down. He thinks the van is out of the question.”

  “And is it?”

  “I’m afraid so. I fixed with Jim to send a taxi, only we didn’t know when.”

  Tessa hovered in the doorway. Her face was very pale, her dark eyes suddenly enormous.

  “Is your mother seriously ill?” she asked.

  “She needs this operation. Yes, I think she’s quite ill.” Alison’s voice trembled a little. “That’s why I can’t stay, Tessa. She got a letter from Robin this morning, but she needs me, too.”

  “From Robin?” The words were little more than a whisper. “I thought he wasn’t going to write.”

  Alison turned from the piano.

  “Did he tell you so?” she asked. “How well did you know Robin, Tessa?”

  “Not well enough.” Tessa’s mouth was mutinous. “He went without saying goodbye to any of us. Why do you think I should have known him better than anyone else?”

  “I thought, by the way you looked, that you might have done.”

  “Well, I didn’t!” Tessa turned on her heel. “I’m going to make some tea, whether you’ve time to drink it or not!” Left with this odd ultimatum, Alison sat down on the piano stool, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the keys now. Something had come between her and her desire to play. Some presence—not Tessa’s—seemed to be hovering in the room. Another woman’s presence. Leone’s?

  Had Leone played this piano to accompany her own singing, she wondered, and if so, why had Tessa been so insistent that it should be played again?

  “Where did he write from?” Tessa asked when she reappeared with a tray set with two cups and saucers. “Robin, I mean.”

  “From Canada. Montreal, to be exact.”

  “He went to New York originally,” Tessa said. “A year ago. A year and two days.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “My sister died there.”

  “Yes, I know.” Alison got up from the stool. “I shouldn’t have come. This must be bringing it all back to you. That lovely voice! It was the most terrible tragedy, an irreparable loss. I’m sorry. Your grief must still be very fresh.”

  Tessa put down the tray. Her hands were trembling. “Grief? How wrong can you be?” she cried, her face distorted. “I hated

  Leone. I still hate her! Do you understand? When she died it shattered all our lives, not just Huntley’s. Sometimes I think she isn’t really dead but just waiting out there on the cliff with her talent and her beauty and her scintillating wit ready to mock us all, to start it all over again, to play with our lives for her own amusement, as she always did. She had a terrible sort of power, and I believe it lasts.”

  It was a wild, unreasoning tirade, driven from Tessa almost against her will, the heart-cry of a young girl goaded to retaliation by jealousy and fear. Alison wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You must be wrong,” she began. “You’ve been terribly upset.” She thought how much she herself had admired Leone without even knowing her. “It will all take time, Tessa.”

  She was groping in the dark, not really knowing what had happened or how Tessa could be involved, unless she had always been in love with Huntley.

  “You think it isn’t true,” Tessa accused her. “Then ask him. Ask Huntley Daviot if Leone isn’t still there, eating up his life! Why do you think he lives out on Sterne like that? Why do you think he makes a recluse of himself most of the time, listening to the sort of music Leone loved? He’s still hers, though she’s dead and he can never have her!”

  Stunned and shaken by an emotion she couldn’t understand, Alison moved towards the door.

  “Try not to think of this, Tessa,” she begged in a voice she hardly recognised as her own. “Leone’s dead. It’s so final. Huntley can’t go on grieving for her for ever.”

  She almost ran from the room and out through the hall into the cold, fresh air, where the afternoon light was already fading beneath the pines. Had she been trying to reassure Tessa or herself?

  Ever since she had met Huntley Daviot she had felt drawn towards him, oddly, compulsively, although he had given her so little encouragement. His strength, even his arrogance had compelled her to notice him, and today, on the bridge down there at the foot of the glen, she had felt his nearness as never before. They had stood together looking down at a delicate fern, and something tender and lovely had blossomed in her heart.

  Only to be crashed, as Tessa’s love had been crushed? Suddenly she found herself blinded by tears. She couldn’t love this man. That couldn’t happen to her on top of everything else! She had never been in love before, but it must surely be a happier experience than this. Her mother had loved her father and there had been a sort of radiance about Craigie Hill as far back as she could remember. The misfortunes of life had been faced with a fortitude which sprang from their faith in each other, and joy had been two-fold. Their simple pleasures had crowned their lives and the work they did together on the farm bound them more and more closely as the years went by. Her father had been stern when the need demanded, but he had never been unjust. He had never been a harsh man.

  Suddenly she stood quite still, remembering all that Tessa had just said and remembering Robin. Where did he come into all this? She was sure now that he did, somewhere.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EARLY the following morning Alison rose to prepare for their journey to Wick.

  “Your mother’s been awake a long time,” Kirsty informed her when she went down to the kitchen. “I took her up a cup o’ tea at five o’clock. I knew she wouldn’t be sleepin’ well.”

  “Thanks, Kirsty.” It was cold, and Alison was never at her best in the early morning. “There isn’t much else to do. I don’t suppose there’s been any word from Mr. Daviot. He promised to try to phone from Golspie last night.”

  Kirsty glanced at the clock.

  “It’s not much more than six,” she pointed out. “He may have word for you when you go with the milk.”

  Alison was half inclined to ask Neil to take the van out on her round for her, but he had been a long time at the milking, even with Kirsty’s help, and the byres were still to clean up. Besides, if there was any flaw in their arrangements it would be best if she heard about it firsthand, from Huntley himself. Neil often got a message completely distorted by the time he delivered it.

  “I’ll go to Sterne first,” she decided. “I’m in plenty of time.” Neil had been slower than usual with the van. His rheumatism was killing him, he explained.

  “I’m like a weather-cock,” he declared. “I can aye tell which way the wind’s blowin’! ”

  This morn
ing he seemed to creak in every joint, moving so slowly that she abandoned the idea of asking him to do anything extra and helped to stack the crates into the van to hurry him on.

  “It’s your mother’s big day,” he reflected sombrely. “Will they be keepin’ her in the hospital for long?”

  “I’m not sure, Neillie.” Alison’s heart felt like lead. “Maybe

  for a week or two. They won’t be able to say till after the operation.”

  “Will ye be stayin’ in Wick?” He watched her with an eagerness akin to cunning. Neil liked to do his job in his own leisurely way. “You’ll have to stay till you’re sure, maybe.”

  “I’ll be staying tonight, anyway.”

  She hadn’t made any arrangements and she realised, suddenly, that she was depending on Jim Orbister. He had assured her that she would be made welcome in his home, and even though she hadn’t been able to contact him she felt that she could depend on his invitation. His sister, Cathie, was a kindly girl whom she remembered from their schooldays, and it seemed she had never married.

  Driving faster than usual, she reached Sterne by half-past six. There was no sign of life in the lighthouse. It stood, stark and bare, against the morning sky, and even when she knocked loudly on the narrow door there was still no sound from inside. The collie was going blind, but he certainly wasn’t deaf. Sterne was deserted.

  To make absolutely sure she walked round the enclosure to the stone outhouses to look for the jeep. It, too, was missing.

  In a wild sort of panic she climbed back into the van. The whole world seemed empty. In spite of the fact that it was a clear, bright morning the sky above her seemed lowering and dark. What was she to do now?

  Huntley must have spent the night at Golspie, forgetting his promise, perhaps. Forgetting all about her and her desperate need. It wasn’t like him, but it could have happened.

  She delivered the milk to a silent Lodge. Even the Major was still asleep. The house turned blank eyes towards her as she drove away, feeling that her only hope was the kiosk at the foot of the glen. Some time during the night or in the early hours of the morning their connection with the outside world could have been renewed.